


But we're a million worlds apart, and I don't know how I would even start

by TrashyLittleThing



Category: Clone High
Genre: Bisexual Disaster Van Gogh (Clone High), First Dates, Gauguin isnt an asshole, Himbo JFK (Clone High), M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Theo is a bit protective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27290284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyLittleThing/pseuds/TrashyLittleThing
Summary: JFK sees his classmate painting and enjoys watching how happy Van Gogh looks. Van Gogh notices and decides that he should make a move. It goes as smoothly as sandpaper, as JFK cannot simply accept the gift, and offers Van Gogh a favour in return.
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	1. Painted Flowers and Impossible Promises

Here he sat, yet again, the middle of art class, incandescently bored. He’d already sent texts to his friends, they didn’t answer. He tried to paint, but he wasn’t very good. It had just been one of those days, he tried everything, but this boredom just wouldn’t let him go.

Honestly, he was this close to just trying to doodle a little, even if it was mindless and worth nothing, just something to distract his mind. Here he was, JFK, the king of the school’s social life, with no friends and nobody to talk to in class. It reminded him of those lonely kids that just hid in the background, unwilling and unnoticed.

Until he noticed something. Someone.

He knew one of the kids, they had a few classes together, but this class was his best. Van Gogh, the most accomplished artist within the school. JFK found himself staring, watching as the paint slowly covered the canvas, how Vincent’s head bobbed to the music in his headphones. 

He’d never noticed how peaceful he looked while painting. The ginger-haired boy always seemed to look stressed or uptight, but in this class, with a paintbrush in his hand, he looked like a tonne of bricks had been taken off of his back, relaxing for even a few hours a day. 

Even JFK, a total blockhead when it came to art, could see the passion and joy Van Gogh found while he painted. Those cornflower eyes smiling as the paintbrush glided over the canvas. Every brushstroke turning into a petal or blade of grass or whatever he was painting. Anything he was painting, JFK loved. His work had so much movement and life to it, and he adored watching Van Gogh turn the white emptiness into something so beautiful. 

Today, Van Gogh decided to paint sunflowers. He liked sunflowers, they were so bright and happy compared to everything else. He listened to the music as he played, a slow love song, not something he would usually play but today he was in a strange mood. One where he felt a little happier, more upbeat than usual. It felt so weird, like someone had put a hex on him to have a good day. He subconsciously blames Joan if it is a hex, after all, she was the one who brought the Ouija board to the party and nearly released a demon. But nothing could be better than art class, where he was allowed to do what he wanted, and he could have all the paint and brushes he could desire. 

Why was he in such a good mood? Well, Joan told him that she suspected someone having a crush on him. It was a joke, obviously, but something about it made him feel all bubbly inside. Someone having a crush on him. It was a ridiculous notion, but it was something to put a spring in his step for the day until it wore off.

He quickly glanced around the room, seeing if it was time to leave yet, but all he found was that John Fucking Kennedy was staring at him, chin in his hand like he was swooning. JFK took a moment to realise he’d been caught, before awkwardly turning back to his work. Was this who Joan had meant? Oh, for fuck’s sake, JFK, of all people! All he ever wanted was a quick in-out and to throw you to the kerb.

But that wasn’t what he saw. He looked back over his shoulder, and there he was, enchanted by his work. Enchanted by him. Not by Monet or Picasso or anyone else in the room. Him.

Then he turned to his sunflower painting. Sure, he liked it, but it was no masterpiece. He had painted millions of sunflowers, so why should he keep all of them? He picked up the painting, after putting his signature on the bottom, took his headphones out, and placed it on Kennedy’s desk.

“Here. I’ve got loads of paintings like this, and I saw you looking at it, so.. here” Van Gogh dumped the canvas over the books on the desk. He didn’t expect JFK to respond the way he did.

“Oh, my goodness, thank you! How much do I, er, uh, owe you?” JFK began to search through his bag to find his wallet, which had some cash in it. Van Gogh smiled at the notion that someone would pay for his work, but this was a gift, and he should not pay for a gift.

“Nothing, it’s a gift. If anything, it’s like clearing space in my studio- I don’t have a lot of room for new paintings and canvases.” Van Gogh pushed the textured painting towards his classmate. JFK was a lot of things, but selfish and greedy were no words that described him. 

“Well, let me at least give you something in return- How about a favour? Name it and I’ll do it” the brown-haired boy reluctantly took the canvas and placed it to the side so he could talk to Vincent more directly. The artist stuttered around, trying to think of a favour to ask of the most powerful student in the school, the one who's IOUs cost more than most could afford. After a while of debating with himself, he decided on what he would like.

“Get me a date with somebody that I’ll get along with. Anybody will do, I swing both ways.” Van Gogh requested. JFK said he would find him a date for Saturday and that the date would pick him up so they could go out to dinner. Van Gogh accepted this deal, and they shook on it.

Now for the hard bit. 

Kennedy was a man of his word, and he wouldn't let his classmate down. Whatever it took.


	2. Promise held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JFK seems to be struggling to find a date for his friend, and Van Gogh seems to be excited by the prospect of having a date.

Now for the hard bit. 

Finding someone who would go on a date with Van Gogh. He wasn’t popular, but he wasn’t a social outcast. He was someone in the middle of the social hierarchy, high enough to dodge some of the harsher bullyings but low enough that he wasn’t on anybody’s radar. He was a wallflower, but a sweet one.

Van Gogh giggled to himself as he packed away his things – JFK wouldn’t be able to do it, and he owed Vincent nothing, so it was a simple solution, an impossible task in return for a gift. He wouldn’t be able to do it, so he’d give up and accept the gift. Nevertheless, if he somehow found him a date, he had nothing nice to wear and his hair could use a trim and a touch up in some areas. Self-care, if anything, that he treated himself to some nice things once in a while. After leaving school, he decided to do a bit of shopping, a new shirt was on the cards.

JFK was determined to complete the task, even if it seemed impossible. He asked around to see if anyone was even interested in him, to no avail. It seemed that anyone who liked him had been scared off by Gandhi at the party JFK hosted at the beginning of the year, so that was a bust. Still, he made a promise, and if nothing else, he was honoring a promise he made to a friend. Wait, were they friends yet? 

He wasn’t thinking clearly. He went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. “C’mon, Kennedy, you made a promise! Think of something, anything!” he looked at himself in the slightly-murky school mirror, yelling at himself. Himself.  
He had an idea. A bad one, but an idea.

Friday was upon them, and Vincent approached JFK in the lunch hall about their deal.

“Found me a date, Kennedy?” Van Gogh asked, sitting down next to his classmate. JFK seemed a little bit too happy for doing an impossible task.  
“In fact, I did. Seems you have someone who’s interested in you, and they’ve said yes” JFK smugly drank his tea and looked down at the flabbergasted artist. Van Gogh seemed very stunned that he managed to pull it off. “In fact, they’ve, er, uh, had their eye on you for a while now.”

Van Gogh was at a loss for words. JFK had gone and fucking done it, and now he had a date.

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to find anyone. What’s their name?” Vincent questioned, but all JFK did was shake his head and giggle.  
“At least tell me who it is who’s picking me up! Don’t be an asshole, tell me!” Van Gogh tried to prise a name out of JFK, but he wouldn’t budge. Well, he did, but that’s because Van Gogh shoved him.

“They’ll be driving my car, so look out for that. They asked to use it for the day. They don’t know where you like to go, so they’re picking you up at 7:30 and taking you to dinner. Somewhere fancy, knowing them”. JFK gave him a nugget of information. Van Gogh could hardly believe it, he had a date, and it wasn’t a fake one to make fun of him. At least he hoped so because he was already thinking about what he was going to wear to the date.

There was something about their conversations that made JFK feel all fizzy inside, the good kind of fizzy. Was this what people meant by ‘butterflies in your stomach’? he wasn’t sure, but he wanted this date more than he was willing to admit. JFK was completely smitten with the little guy, his almost snorting laughter and kind eyes made his insides do loops.

JFK waited patiently for the day to arrive. He’d chosen what he was going to wear, a nice shirt and trousers with either his letterman’s jacket or a blazer jacket (he hadn’t chosen yet, they both looked good). He did his hair his usual way, only with a bit more hair wax than usual, to give it some volume, and hopped in his car. JFK stopped to get gas, and while he was at the station, he bought a dozen sunflowers. He was sweating bullets as he stood outside Van Gogh’s door.

Van Gogh had spent the whole afternoon getting ready for his date, showering twice, and getting his foster mother to do his hair all nice. He even trimmed his silly puberty beard and put on a shirt and tie, with his brother’s help of course. Vincent had no idea how to tie a tie, so he went to Theo for help, as he usually did. He was nearly ready, just had to grab his wallet and put on his shoes. Just as he tied his laces, the doorbell rang.

“I’ve got it!” Van Gogh yelled, grabbing his coat to leave. His foster mother gave him a kiss before he opened the door, and his brother wished him luck as he continued with his college work upstairs. 

When he opened the door, he wasn’t met with someone who he thought might be interested in him. He looked up at his date, only to find a friend looking at him, all dressed up and bearing a bouquet of sunflowers.

“Jack?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD THIS WAS A LONG TIME COMING--
> 
> school came and kicked my ass so i've had 0 time to work on this


	3. Beneath stars is where I find you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JFK takes Vincent to dinner

Van Gogh stared, unable to comprehend what was going on. 

JFK pressed the flowers into his hands and waved to Van Gogh’s mother as she passed the door. Vincent thanked whatever god was out there that Theo didn’t hear who it was – Theo didn’t like JFK, he thought the boy was rude. JFK nodded, he was the date, and they were going to have dinner. Vincent sputtered out questions as JFK smiled, before placing a hand on his back and leading him to the car. 

There was something about him that JFK found so magical – he was short, had ginger hair and scruffy beard, always had dark circles beneath his eyes, and blue braces, so why did he find him so cute? He pushed it to the back of his mind for a while, hopping into the driver’s seat and, once Vincent had done up his seatbelt, drove off. The air was crisp as they drove away, leaving the town of Exclamation and away to a town not more than an hour away- a town by the name of Quotation, known for its buzzing nightlife and it's beautiful artisan cafes.

Vincent was still processing everything. He was currently going on a date. A date with the most popular boy in school, why would he want a date with little loser Vincent? He tried not to dwell on it, as they arrived at the restaurant. It was a nice, classy place, with waitstaff buzzing around like bees on a spring morning.

JFK offered his arm to Vincent, and a waiter soon came over to check their reservation. Turns out, JFK had booked them to the nice outside area around the back, a glasshouse where it was only them and a small group of people off in the corner. JFK seemed pleased, and the waiter passed two menus once they were seated.

“Wine list, gentlemen?” the waiter asked, passing Vincent a laminated piece of paper covered in names and images of nice wines. JFK shooed the waiter away, for now, looking over his own menu. Van Gogh was busy staring at their extensive list of wines, cocktails, drinks, it was like a winery was attached to the building.

It was truly beautiful. 

A band crooned smooth jazz from the corner stage, candles at every table and fairy lights twinkling from the railing, the only lights in the room so they could all look up and gaze at the stars above. The dark oak tables shined in the amber light, the pristine white cloth draped over it bringing out the shine in the beautiful silver cutlery. The wall attached to the restaurant was bare brickwork, with photographs of the surrounding fields and nearby beach.

Vincent took a moment to take in his surroundings, taking mental notes on the details, as if he was observing a painting. He was probably going to paint this scene, knowing himself.

“Any idea what we should pick?” Vincent asked, passing the wine list to JFK across the table. JFK scanned it quickly and offered Vincent a rose wine that sounded very nice and also very expensive. Vincent opened his mouth to protest the expensive wine, but JFK shushed him and flashed his wallet, as thick as a steak. Oh, yeah, JFK’s family was loaded. Having two music producers for parents had its perks.

“I don’t want you spending that much on me, John, you’ve already brought me to such an amazing place-” Vincent began, after his jaw-dropping at the wine’s price, but JFK shushed him again. “let me spoil you, Vin. Even if it’s just for tonight.” 

“Oh, so you can get in my pants?” Vincent joked, JFK’s face going scarlet. He hadn’t thought about the sex part of dates. Entirely, he’d never slept with another man, let alone one he was so smitten for. Well, that was a lie, he’d slept with Ponce back when he was still questioning himself, and they called themselves 'boyfriends' behind closed doors. Seems Jack has a thing for alt boys.

The two chose their meals, Vincent choosing a nice seafood platter and JFK going for their house steak. Their wine was poured, and Vincent inhaled the scent, which was sweet but not too sweet. It was perfect, as he let the ruby liquid pour down his throat, staining his lips.

JFK sipped at his own glass, it was a nice wine, he enjoyed it. He put his glass down before he had too much at once, only to see Vincent still drinking.  
“Vinnie, that’s a lot for the first sip” JFK commented, the wine catching in Vincent’s throat and making him cough. JFK patted his back as Van Gogh tried to catch his breath, and on cue, their dinner arrived. 

The two began to eat, JFK trying to distract himself from the way Vincent ate prawns. He was doing it on purpose because if he was honest, JFK flustered was adorable. The rosy pink his cheeks went, his shining brown eyes in the light of the candles looked like oceans of caramel, fiery and gentle.

He could stay here forever, just looking into Jack's eyes as the jazz crooning from the corner wound around them, candlelight flickering as the stars watched over them.

Meanwhile, back home, Theo was typing away at his desk. His room was clean, with white walls coated in posters and paintings his brother had made when he was still new to the craft of painting, as well as a pinboard covered in polaroids of him and Vincent. They were impeccably close, inseparable, until this week. Vincent had been secretive, giving him contradicting bits of information and then leaving before Theo could see his date and fix his hair. It seemed like Vincent knew he was making an active effort to keep Theo away from his love-life, and it stung. It felt wrong.

Vincent, when he was little, took every word from Theo's mouth as gospel, and Theo never gave him any reason to doubt what he said. Theo had guided him in the right direction if ever he could, offering advice and even passing down his class notes once Vincent began to grow up and take his classes more seriously.

He'd always been there for Vincent, through the struggles and roughness of his mental health, comforting him and raising him up when he was down. His whole life, he'd been there. And now Vincent didn't want him there anymore.

His friends were sitting around his room, all working on their own things when Theo slammed his fist down on the table in frustration. His company, namely Gauguin and Bernard, nearly jumped in surprise. 

Theo had been on edge all night, something in him tense and uptight, wound up waiting to snap. And now was the time to snap. His essay on art history could wait, he was not happy.

"It's nearly eleven, he was meant to be home an HOUR ago!" he hissed, his voice acid against his tongue as the reality of his words set in for himself. Theo trusted his brother, he really did, but the week leading up to the date, Vincent acted strangely. Not telling him who he was going out with, where they were going, not one nugget of information, and it set Theo on edge.

His mind began to assume the worst, that his dear brother was drunk with someone he barely knew, in someone else's car, possibly miles away. Theo went from angry to worried to utterly terrified. Paul saw this, he knew how close the brothers were, and that Theo was hurt by this.

"Vincent can hold his own, he's fine. They're probably having a good time and lost track of the time." Paul tried to soothe his friend, but it wasn't working. Theo was so close to grabbing his keys and coat and leaving to find Vincent, but he couldn't abandon his guests like that, it would be rude. 

Bernard and Monet hopped onto what Gauguin was saying about Vincent's safety- they all saw him like a younger brother, but he wasn't a child and Theo wasn't always trusting of Vincent's judgement, but they were adjusting to Vincent growing up.

"C'mon, Theo, it's not like he's on a date with JFK!"


	4. Hold me and don't let go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they can't drive home, so they share a bed in a hotel while Theo nearly hyperventilates at his discovery

The dinner went well, the pair bonding and chatting and laughing as their dinner got cold, but they didn’t mind, they were loving every moment of it. They shared a dessert, some kind of chocolate brownie cake, and polished off the bottle of wine before JFK paid and they left. 

JFK couldn’t drive in this state, and Vincent didn't have a license, so they called their parents to say that ‘the car wasn’t starting’ and that they had to spend the night in the town. Theo called Vincent to make sure he was okay, as all protective brothers do, and it took a few minutes to convince him not to drive an hour over to the town, lest he find out he was out here with a tipsy JFK.

JFK dug around his car for a few minutes, breaking out a map of the town. There seemed to be a hotel nearby, so they walked.  
The stupid hotel only had one room open, and it was a double bed. JFK booked it for the night, offering to sleep on the sofa or in his car, but the second the door closed behind them, Vincent dragged him and threw him onto the bed, crawling up beside him. JFK was so unsure what to do until he saw Vincent’s eyes.

The glittering china blue orbs asked him to stay, to hold him, to comfort him. And he obliged. They changed their clothes, their underwear, undershirts, and socks all that remained, and lied facing each other on the generous bed. They were happy just to exist with each other, laying down and looking at their friend fondly. JFK could not be more peaceful.

Vincent, however, was stirring. Here he was, in bed, next to a shirtless JFK, who was also just in his boxers! This was how many of his dreams started, and here he was freezing up! He decided to try to at least hold him, reaching one cold hand over and resting it on JFK’s waist. 

JFK jolted at the icy hand holding his side, but he didn’t move it anywhere. He simply reached over and pulled Vinnie closer to him, god, his hand was nearly the size of his waist. When their eyes met, JFK could see something like fire in Vincent’s eyes, wanting him and only him.

Their lips met, with Vincent clinging to the taller boy as if his life depended on it. He tasted like chocolate, sweet, inviting, passionate. JFK held Vincent close, relishing the taste of those lips and how soft his skin was as he ran his hands down his sunflower’s sides and thighs, pulling him up onto his lap. 

Then he felt something. He pulled away from the kiss and looked down, moving his hand away from the thigh. Scars. JFK’s eyes stared, he couldn’t help it, noticing how the thighs matched with scarring. Van Gogh tried to kiss him again, to hide his scars and shame, but all that it achieved was showing JFK the wrist that matched the thighs.

JFK’s eyes filled slowly with salted tears, that someone this beautiful and kind resorted to slashing himself to cope. He lifted the arm to his face, pressing a kiss against the bottom of the hand. Vincent was also nearly crying, his eyes overflowing with tears as JFK simply kissed his scars and held him, rather than call him a coward or a freak.

“Who made you do this to yourself? Who made you feel this way?” JFK asked, holding Vincent and resting his head against his chest, listening to the heartbeat. Vincent tried not to cry, but the tears flowed silently down his face as a weak smile formed. He ran his fingers through JFK’s hair, soft and smooth and gently smelling like that smoky cinnamon cologne which often wafted itself through corridors. Vincent stayed silent, though, as JFK forgot about the world and knew only of Vincent’s hands, his endearing touch, his smell of lavender and glue and paint, his constant heartbeat.

JFK didn’t move, Vincent’s nimble fingers tracing his ear and running through his hair. He didn’t care that it was now a mess, this was bliss. This was a million times better than whatever emotionless, horny sex they could have had, and JFK thought he could spend his whole life right there.

But back in Exclamation, someone was panicking. Theo had received a call from Vincent- "The car isn't starting" he said, and then refused for Theo to come over and pick the pair up. But that hadn't been what got him into this mess. It had been what he'd overheard. He really didn't like not trusting his brother, they were close as could be, but something had been off for about a week and he was solving this mystery.

Vincent was clearly being pestered by someone throughout the call, and Vincent told him several times to stop it, increasingly more annoyed. "Jack, stop it, I'm on the phone". Vincent said to the person with him.

Jack. Theo knew a lot of people in Clone High, as a prefect, but there were many "Jack"s in school. Which one could it be? Was it a nickname rather than a first name? He wasn't sure, but it was getting late and he wasn't thinking straight. The longer he thought, the longer the list of possible people became. Then he heard another name- one a bit more familiar.

"John. Stop pestering me and call your dads.".

A John with more than one dad.

JFK.

Vincent was on a date with JFK.

It was moments later that he collapsed, his friends yelling in surprise and worry as Theo hit the floor. He woke up a few minutes later, sitting up straight and yelling out "VINCENT IS ON A DATE WITH JFK", his face pale and his forehead drenched in a cold sweat.

Gauguin had jinxed it. He really was out there with JFK.

Oh no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally wrote this during class sorry if this is a shorter chapter- have fun nonetheless!


	5. Brothers in arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent returns home and braces himself for impact.

They woke up to a golden morning peeking through the curtains, JFK’s head resting on Vincent’s chest listening only to his heartbeat. Vincent ran his fingers through Jack’s hair again, inhaling that cinnamon cologne which would undoubtedly would linger with him.

“Morning, Jack” Vincent cooed to the docile jock in his arms, who stirred awake slowly and looked up at him with big brown eyes, still sleepy. They were gorgeous, like pools of caramel and chocolate swirling into a dark pupil, the whites of his eyes shining a pretty gold in the morning light. It was a picture, such beautiful colours, the handsome muse and his fluffy eyelashes over glittering hazel eyes. their hangovers gently settled in, but it wasn't bad yet.

JFK murmured something like “morning” and his eyes closed, back to listening to the heartbeat. Vincent rolled his eyes at the lazy boy, trying to reach for a phone to order breakfast for the pair.

Vincent looked at his own phone, to find the time. It was 11am, both of them had overslept severely.

“Shit” Vincent cursed beneath his breath- he promised Theo last night to be back by 10:30! He was probably on his way over to find him at this point.  
He was right. Theo was at home, his friends with him after spending the night, as the hours passed, and Vincent still wasn’t home. Theo was on the floor in tears, not sad tears, but angry tears. 

He shouldn’t have let Vincent go with him, he could be drinking alcohol, he could be having sex, he could be doing drugs-

Then Gauguin slapped him. 

He was saying all of that out loud, and frankly, it was getting to be too much. “Dude, snap out of it. Vincent isn’t a baby, don’t you trust him?” He was right. But Theo had reasons not to trust his brother like this. At the first party they went to, Theo saw someone spike Vincent’s drink, and he saw Vincent trying to drink alcohol behind his back, which ended in a very drunk Vincent being carried home after throwing up all over the bathroom and Theo having to peel him off of the floor and give his brother his clean shirt, rather than one covered in his dinner.

There were a few times that Theo caught Vincent trying to get it on with someone while drunk and with people Theo knew weren't trustworthy in the slightest – one time he walked in on Gandhi trying to get Vincent’s pants off and that was the last straw.

Vincent, since then, was gaining more of Theo’s trust, and now it was enough that he could go out without Theo there, but he might have let Vincent go loose a bit too soon. 

About half an hour later, Vincent opened the door as quietly as he could. Both him and JFK went into a wild panic when they realised the time and Vincent didn’t realise that he was wearing JFK’s shirt yet.

Even as quietly as he opened the door, he turned around to be met with his brother’s friends, but not his brother. Gauguin scooped the short artist up and whisked him off to the kitchen.

“we want you to tell us right now what happened and why you’re late – Theo is worried sick.” Lautrec spoke while Gauguin kept Vincent firmly in a chair to be interrogated. 

“We didn’t do anything, we just had dinner and stayed in a hotel room because the car wouldn’t start” Vincent fed them the preconceived lie that he thought of with JFK earlier. However, this didn’t fly.

Gauguin slammed a hand down on Vincent’s shoulder, a reprimand. “You’re lying, the car was working just fine because you wouldn’t have got home if it wasn’t starting. Try again, smartass”.

Vincent tried the same lie again, but again, it didn’t work. Bernard tried to see what it was using a different method.

“So, you were either drunk or you ran off to have sex with the man-whore, which was it?” Bernard gave the ultimatum, and this seemed to set Vincent off. 

“He isn’t a man-whore, and we weren’t drunk! I don’t know how to drive, and we’d had some wine, big deal! And we didn’t even do anything!” Vincent yelled. So, they hit the nail on the head – they were drinking and couldn’t drive. 

“knew it” Gauguin let go of Vincent’s shoulders and went over to get a glass of water. Vincent braced himself for it to be thrown at him, something Gauguin had done once before when Theo told his friend about why Vincent was wearing his shirt, but Gauguin just pressed it into his hand and told him to nurse it for a while until Lautrec found the painkillers for his headache.

Vincent sighed, his head really was sore, and this was nice of them to do before he got his face shredded by Theo. He knew his brother was already mad at him, but now he just felt guilty for doing what he did. He should’ve been honest, told him from the start what the plan was, asked him to pick them up rather than make everything look suspicious and stay the night.

They did try to get it on, but JFK stopped when he saw the scars. He cared. He didn’t push for anything, he was respectful, and didn’t mind that they didn’t have sex – maybe he didn’t even want to do anything, maybe being there with him was enough. 

Vincent took the painkillers as Theo came down stairs. Theo had dark eyes, and dark circles to match. The parts that weren’t dark were red, and his usually perfect hair was a mess. Vincent’s stomach sank as he realised how worried he made his beloved brother. Theo came into the kitchen, sharing brief words with Gauguin before turning to Vincent.

Words spilled out of him, his eyes meeting a pair that had spent the night crying and worried for him. As he spoke, he teared up, and they began to stain his face. 

“Theo, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for any of that to happen, I should’ve been honest about it and-” Theo cut his brother off with a hug, a tight one.

Vincent hugged back, continuing to apologise as Theo shushed him gently. Theo picked him up and held him tight, like he did when Vincent was younger. Theo was just glad Vincent was safe, that he was okay after last night. He no longer cared that it was JFK (well, he did, but not as much), because JFK brought him home and he was safe and unharmed and seemed to have had a good time, despite their current situation.

No matter what happened, Theo was still Vincent’s brother, and it would take a bit more than JFK dating him to make Theo so angry that he’d stop talking to him for a while. Last time he tried that, it really didn’t end well – it ended with Vincent back in a psych ward and Theo’s anxiety skyrocketing.

Vincent was glad that Theo cared, but just as glad that he didn’t get a verbal beatdown. Maybe Theo was too tired to yell, or maybe he realised that sometimes Vincent could be trusted, and that trusting others to do what he usually did was an option in future.

Theo sat him down on the couch and sat beside him, “Tell me about your night, sounds like you had fun”.

“I did, I had a great time”.

"I'd love to hear about it"...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry ive been dead, enjoy some wholesome brothers while i try to finish this fic

**Author's Note:**

> They're absolute fools and nobody can stop them.


End file.
